


You Built In Me This City

by ghostboi



Series: Graveyard Digger, Coffin Case Sinner [18]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angry Dean Winchester, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Codependency, Codependent Winchesters (Supernatural), Dean's POV, Fights, Flagstaff, Gen, M/M, Misunderstandings, Obsession, Possessive Dean Winchester, Sam's POV, Serial Killer Dean Winchester, Threats of Violence, ha my take on Sam running away to Flagstaff Arizona
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-25
Updated: 2019-05-18
Packaged: 2019-07-02 09:04:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15793353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostboi/pseuds/ghostboi
Summary: It wasn’t their first fight by any means, but it was the first time, the only time, Dean had ever told him to leave.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> prompt: misunderstandings  
> (note: I was half.asleep when I wrote this, so if there are horrid typos or odd sentence structure that I've overlooked, please feel free to let me know. <3)

Sam stood as his ride rolled to a halt and lifted his backpack from the seat next to him. He glanced out the window as he heard laughter, and saw a group of people gathered outside, laughing and hugging. He exhaled heavily and slipped the backpack onto his shoulders, then stepped off the bus.

An hour later, he was sitting in a coffee shop, ingesting much-needed caffeine. He hadn’t slept in 48 hours, he was tired, and everything inside him felt hollow. He frowned, shoved the thoughts that were plaguing him away. His eyes shifted to the phone by his hand on the table; it had gone dead an hour into his bus ride. He really needed to charge it, and would as soon as he found a motel room.

Sam brushed a hand over his eyes. He needed some sleep. He needed food. He needed Dean. He picked up and pocketed his phone before standing and leaving the shop.

Half an hour later, the 22-year old walked into an empty motel room. He locked the door behind him before moving further into the room to toss his backpack on the bed. He placed his phone and his gun beside it - he needed to plug in his phone before he went to sleep - and started digging into his pack find some clean clothes. Shower, then sleep.

The young man was standing beneath the spray of water in the shower, washing shampoo out of his hair, when the panic set in. What the fuck had he done? He muttered a breathless “fuck” as he leaned forward, palms against the tile, trying to take calming breaths. Tears and water dripped down his face as he rested his forehead against the tiled wall. “Fuck!”

He and Dean had their share of fights over the years, most of which passed quickly. Every now and again they had an epic one, which led to heated, shouted words and slammed doors. Two nights ago had been an epic one.

He had watched his brother kill people, had helped him when those urges for darkness struck him, but it was the stupid little things that blew up between them. Dean, for example, was possessive, and Sam loved that about him. He did. He loved everything about his brother. Still, sometimes that possession bordered maniacal and homicidal.

Sam had stopped in at a bar near their motel, where he had gone to have a couple of beers while Dean went out in search of his own “fix”. He and a woman sitting next to him had struck up a conversation (about books, of all things) while having their beers. After a while, they said their goodbyes, and both had moved to get up and leave the bar. The woman had stumbled while getting off her bar stool, and Sam caught her. Whether it was intentional or not, he didn’t know, but he had enough manners not to let her fall her on face. She had given an embarrassed laugh, muttered a thanks, and Sam had let her go. He had turned to leave, and found himself face-to-face with Dean. Dean, whose eyes had flicked to the departing girl, a muscle in his jaw twitching as he tried to contain his obvious rage.

The rage, the twitching of his brother’s fingers at his sides, that look in his eyes. Signs that that man hadn’t found a target, hadn’t satisfied whatever darkness drove him. Sam had guided his brother from the bar immediately, before he decided the clumsy woman was his next target, and back toward their nearby room. Dean was oddly silent throughout the walk, shooting angry glances at him as he explained what had happened at the bar.

It had all gone to hell once they reached their room. Dean’s anger overrode his reasoning, and he had demanded to know if Sam went to “find someone” every time Dean went out to do his thing. It had escalated from there, ending with “Leave, then!” from his brother, and a slammed door as Dean stormed out of the room.

It wasn’t their first fight by any means, but it was the first time, the only time, Dean had ever told him to leave.

Sam had listened as the Impala’s engine roared to life, heard the squealing of tires as his brother peeled out of the parking lot.

He spent the rest of the night pacing the room, chewing his nails and wondering if Dean was going to come back. He never doubted his brother’s love for him, ever, but sometimes he wondered if Dean would tire of him and leave him to pursue what he needed on his own. Why else would the man tell him to leave?

His brother was still gone come morning. Sam had gone to the front desk and paid for the room for another night, then he had waited some more. When evening approached and Dean hadn’t returned, he had gathered his things, heartbroken. Maybe Dean had been serious, maybe he wanted Sam to go. While this had happened once or twice before, Dean leaving and not coming back for a day or two, the man hadn't ever told him to _leave_. He left the room, and, not certain what else to do if Dean really did want him gone, he walked to the local bus station fifteen minutes away. There, he had hopped a bus to a random destination. Flagstaff, Arizona, a seven hour bus-ride away.

Sam sighed heavily as he shut off the shower and stepped out to towell himself off. He wanted his brother and he wanted sleep, in that order. When he was mostly dry, he pulled on a pair of pajama pants and a t-shirt, and left the bathroom.

He didn’t want to think anymore right now. He would get some rest, and then he would figure out what to do.

He was asleep seconds after his head hit the pillow.

When Sam woke nine hours later, he knew immediately he wasn’t alone. He sat up, eyes finding his brother instantly. Dean was sitting in a wooden, barely-padded chair several feet from the bed (and placed deliberately between him and the door), watching him.

“Did you think you were going to just leave me, Sam?” Dean’s voice was gravel-rough, his clothes rumpled, his face sporting two days growth of stubble. He looked tired, his eyes edged with dark circles, and his fists were clenched on the wooden chair arms. 

Sam wanted to throw himself at the other man and cling to him, but he remained where he was. He didn’t answer Dean’s question, just stared at the other man as his heart pounded in his chest. He had known Dean would find him, if his brother wanted to do so, and now.. here he was.

He watched as Dean shoved himself out of the chair. He watched, motionless, as the man pulled the bowie knife from its sheath, which Sam knew was tucked at the small of his back. Dean stepped to the bed’s side, and still Sam only watched.

“Did you?” the man repeated his question, his words low, traced with something dangerous, “Did you think you were just going to walk out on me?”

Sam spoke finally, his own voice quiet, “You told me to leave.”

Dean moved then, quick as was his way when he was on the hunt; Sam blinked as he found his brother straddling his lap suddenly, felt a knife at his throat.

The man’s words were a growl as he reminded, “Told you if you ever left me, I would hunt you down and end us both.” The blade pressed against his flesh, and Sam swallowed and whispered again,

“You told me to leave.”

“And you left.” 

Green eyes, hurt and angry, met his own. Sam, who never liked to see his brother in pain of any sort, especially because of him, wanted to throw his arms around the other man. Instead, he bit back the ache inside and whispered, his own voice a little forlorn,

“You left first.”

His brother growled and the knife pressed against his throat. Sam, for his part, simply closed his eyes and tilted his head back slightly, allowing better access. If Dean wanted to do it, Sam wasn’t going to stop him. He had promised his brother over the years “anything”, and he had been sincere. 

He opened his eyes again as the knife disappeared, to see Dean drop it to the mattress beside them. His brother grabbed his face with both hands, then, and leaned in to press their foreheads together.

“Sam,” a sob escaped the older man, and Sam felt his heart crack, “Sammy. I didn’t mean it, I didn’t want you to leave.”

He swallowed hard and finally, finally, slipped his arms around his brother. Dean did the same, slid arms around him to hug him close, burying his face against Sam’s neck. His words were muffled but Sam made them out,

“Didn’t want you to leave. I was so fuckin’ angry. Wasn’t your fault, it was me. I was burning up inside, Sam, but couldn’t find anything to make it stop, and then I went into that place and saw that girl in your arms. I wanted to cut her open, I wanted to hurt her. I hurt you instead, I’m sorry, Sammy. I didn’t mean what I said.”

Sam met his brother’s green gaze, wet with unshed tears, as Dean pulled back to look at him. “You wanna leave? Sammy, if you -”

“Dean, no.”

“I’ll let you go, if it - if I have to, if you want it.” The man pulled him in close again, buried his face against Sam’s neck again, “Anything for you, Sam. You can go and I’ll put a bullet in my head and you’ll be free of me. You’ll be free of this fucked up life I made for you.”

“No!” Sam tried to keep his heart from shattering at the words, tightened his hold on his brother, “No, I don’t want to leave, Dean. I just want you. I just -- you didn’t come back and I thought -- I just want you.” 

“I called you over and over, but it went to voicemail, and you didn’t answer my texts. I didn’t want you to leave.”

“My phone went dead when I was on the bus,” Sam had known he should have charged it when it went dead, and he had meant to before falling asleep hours earlier, but it had slipped his mind in his exhaustion.

Dean’s arms around him were an anchor, and weren’t they both fucked up? Sam laid his head against his brother’s chest - Dean was still straddling his lap - and listened to the man’s heartbeat. It was fast in Dean’s distress, fight-or-flight mode maybe, but it was an anchor.  
When Dean finally relinquished his hold on him and shifted to lay next to him on the bed, Sam leaned over and snatched his phone charger from his backpack. He reached for the dead phone lying on the bedside table and plugged it in to charge.

“How did you find me?” he knew the answer already, but asked anyway. Dean, stretched out on his side next to him, one hand resting possessively against Sam’s chest, raised a brow. 

“Looked all over town,” the man finally answered, “Bars, motels. Hit the bus stop then, showed your picture. Lady recognized you, I conned her into tell me where you had gone. Showed her some pictures of us on my phone, told her we were supposed to meet but I was late, so you left. She had a lot of sympathy for my heartbreak.”

“Ah. The heartbroken missed connection routine,” Sam stared at the ceiling, a smile touching his mouth. Dean could be very convincing when he wanted to be. His eyes shifted to his brother as Dean said softly,

“It wasn’t an act.”

He swallowed as he saw the pain on his brother’s face. He was about to speak when he heard the buzzing that mean his phone had powered up: seconds later, it began to chime. Sam blinked as it did so repeatedly, indicating missed calls and texts, and reached for his phone.

His eyes widened as he stared at the display screen: 37 missed calls and 114 missed texts over the past 24 hours, all from Dean. He started with the texts, scrolling up to start with the first one sent after his phone had gone dead. The time stamp read that it had been sent two hours into his bus ride.

The messages started with “Where are you?” They were pleas for him to come back shortly into them, apologies and pleas for him to come back to Dean, and he had tears slipping down his face by the time he reached the end of them. He swallowed hard, opened the phone list to start with the voicemails. He paused, glanced over at Dean, as his brother placed a hand over his and whispered, “Don’t. You don’t need to listen to them. You’re with me now, that’s all that matters, Sammy.”

“I’m sorry,” he dropped the phone and went willingly into Dean’s embrace, “I’m sorry.”

“‘S’okay, babyboy,” lips brushed his forehead, “We’re okay.” Dean held him, swaying back and forth slightly; rocking him, Sam realized, like he had when they were kids and Sam was upset or hurt. 

“Didn’t wanna leave. I was, I was stupid. I’m sorry. I just want you.”

“You got me, Sammy,” his brother’s words were soothing now, hands trailing up and down his back, calming and sure, “Every bit of me. Always.”


	2. Chainsaw To My Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam's gone, and whose fault is that?  
> [Dean's point-of-view of "You Built In Me This City"]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to PixieQueen1223 for the inspiration for this. I just hope I did it justice (though I fear I have not).

Dean paced the motel room, cell phone to his ear. He muttered a low curse beneath his breath as it rang; moments later, it went to voicemail.

“Fuck!” He slammed his fist against the wall, nearly threw the phone. He needed it still to find Sam, and refrained himself at the last moment. He drew in a breath meant to calm it - it failed - and punched the button to dial again.

“Answer the phone, Sam.” Dean resumed his pacing, “Please. Fuck, please answer.”

 

Dean and Sam didn’t fight often but when they did, it sometimes blew up on them. He had gone out for his “fix” (as Sam termed it) two nights ago; it hadn’t been a successful hunt. Finding his brother in the local bar afterward hadn’t been an issue. Seeing him with a pretty woman, watching her press against him, had been. He was angry - furious - and shaking with the need to end her, right there in the middle of the bar.  
  
Sam had recognized his intentions and had guided him from the place. It was when they reached their room that Dean lost his temper and demanded to know if Sam went out in search of someone else every time he left on a hunt. It has escalated from there, at least on his part.  
  
He had thrown the words “Leave, then!” at his brother, before storming out of the room and leaving in the Impala. An hour later, he was in the next town, haunting a bar there in search of a way to relieve some of his anger and jealousy. Searching for a kill.  
  
It wasn’t until the following evening that he found a target and succeeded in what he had set out to do two nights prior. After he had finished, leaving the body in a barely-traveled wooded area at the edge of town, he returned to his motel room. He was in the shower when his words to Sam, the look on his little brother’s face, came back to him in a sudden rush. Realization hit him only now, now that his anger and the darkness (he didn’t have a better word for it) that drove him sometimes had dissipated with his kill:  Sam had looked devastated. Dean had thrown words at him in anger, and the expression on his face had been heartbroken. And Dean, dumbass that he was, had waltzed right on out the door. Right on out of town.  
  
Damnit, he was such an asshole sometimes.  
  
“Fuck,” he shut off the water and snagged a towel from a hook on the wall. He wrapped it around his waist and left the bathroom, caring little for the water he was dripping all over the floor. He crossed the motel room, to where he had tossed his phone on the nightstand last night.  
  
Two text messages, both from Sam. Both from last night.

_Do you want me to leave?_

_I’m sorry_

Dean frowned at the phone in his hand, regret and a heavy feeling of dread settling in his stomach. He hit the button to call Sam as he moved to grab some clothing from the spare duffel bag he always kept in the car. His brother didn’t answer, and uneasiness crept through him. He dressed quickly and gathered his belongings and, ten minutes later, he was in the Impala, heading back to his brother. He tried to call again, but it went to voicemail. He muttered a curse beneath his breath and pressed his foot on the accelerator.

  
  
The room was empty. Dean stared at the empty bed, eyes shifting to the bathroom, the closet. Sam’s clothes were gone. The clothes Dean had left when he walked out two nights ago were gone. Sam was gone. Dean glanced around the room once more, and realization hit him like a knife to the chest. He leaned back against the door, his fucking breaking heart thudding against his sternum, and closed his eyes. “Fuck.”  
  
_Sam was gone._

  
  
Barely an hour had passed since returning here and finding this fucking empty room, and Dean had called his brother’s phone several times. Every time Sam didn’t answer, every time Dean left him a voicemail or a text, some niggling little voice in the back of his head screamed at him _See what you did? You stupid ass, this is your fault! He’s gone and he’s not coming back!_  
  
No. No, damnit! He couldn’t accept that. He couldn’t do this without Sam. He couldn’t _be_ without Sam. Even thinking about it sent jittery feelings of panic and heartache through him. Dean ran a hand through his hair and headed for the door. He had to find his brother.  
  
He hadn’t any success at the bar they had been at the other night, nor at either of the other two motels in town. Dean managed to fight down his anger and panic, and returned to the motel. He went to the front office and asked the desk clerk about his brother, and she gave him his first lead: Sam had come in the night before, asking if there was a bus stop in town.

A five minute drive to the bus stop, and a ten minute talk with the woman who was selling tickets, and Dean had a destination. Flagstaff, Arizona.  
  
His brother was gone. Sam had fucking left him. _Sam had fucking left him!_  
  
He strode back to the Impala, phone at his ear again. “Fuck!” More ringing, and then voicemail. “Where the hell are you, Sam?” His anger was replaced briefly by fear: What if Sam wasn’t answering because something had happened? What if he was hurt and couldn’t answer? Hell, maybe he just didn’t _want_ to answer Dean’s calls. “Sammy, please call me back. I’m going crazy here. I’m sorry for what I said, please come back to me. I need you, Sam.” He ended the call, a shuddering breath escaping him.  
  
What had he done? This was his fault. He had told Sam to leave, and now his brother, his everything, was gone. _Fuck!_ What if Sam didn’t want him coming after him? He had driven his brother away with his anger. Maybe Sam didn’t want him anymore. He leaned against the car for a moment, trying to calm himself. He would be damned before he let Sam go like this.  
  
He sent another text to his brother before climbing into the Impala: _Where are you? Sam I’m sorry, please call me_. He tossed the phone in the seat beside him and started the car, the rumbling of the engine calming him a bit. He had a seven hour drive to make.

  
  
Dean made it to Flagstaff in five hours. From there, it wasn’t hard to find out which motel his brother was staying in. They’d had a system for years, for if they were separated - first one listed in the phone book yellow pages, under ‘motels’ - and he guessed (hoped) Sam had done it this time.  
  
Five minutes at the front desk, and the receptionist caved to his story about he and his little brother being separated during their road trip, and his teary eyes. After extracting a promise that he wouldn’t rat her out for giving out clientele information, she gave him the room number. She had offered him the spare key, even, but he had assured her he would knock and Sam would let him in.  
  
Ten minutes after that, he had picked the lock and was standing inside his brother’s room.  
  
Dean’s anger, his fear, his rage at being left by the one person who meant anything to him, was all replaced by an overwhelming sense of relief the moment he saw his brother, sleeping on the room’s single bed. He was exhausted, suddenly, by his lack of sleep - he had been awake for almost three nights now - and by his roller coaster emotions over the last 60 hours. He wanted to crawl next to his brother and cling to him; instead, he quietly moved a chair between the bed and the door, and seated himself in it.

  
  
A bit less than two hours later, Sam shifted on the bed, before sitting up. The younger man glanced in his direction, eyes widening at the sight of him. The look on his face was a mixture of relief and uncertainty and hurt. Dean swallowed hard at that expression, before asking, his voice rough,

“Did you think you were going to just leave me, Sam?”  
  
When his brother whispered, pain etching his voice and his beautiful features, “You left first,” Dean’s heart cracked open. When he tilted his head, allowing Dean to press the knife he held tighter against his throat, Dean suddenly couldn't breathe. He couldn’t stop the sob which escaped his throat then, “Sammy, I didn’t mean it. I didn’t want you to leave.”  
  
This was wrong. It was all wrong. If Sam really wanted to go, didn’t want him anymore, he would let his brother go. He would put a bullet in his own head and Sam would be free of him. He couldn’t just let him walk away, though. He couldn’t just - He didn’t even realize he was speaking the words aloud in his grief and his hurt, not until his brother hugged him close and whispered that he didn’t want to leave.  
  
Sam’s arms slipped around him, and the turmoil within began to quiet.  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Random question from a writing group i'm in: Patreon for fanfic. Yay or nay?


End file.
